Part Two

[Meard’s Court, Soho. An August nightfall, 1760. Catherine is seated at a small pianoforte, Catherine’s mother is examining the contents of a chest. “Tristram Shandy” has plunged Sterne into the drawing-rooms of London, and Catherine has followed.]

Mother: Ten bottles of Calcavillo…one pot of Honey…
A jar of Comfits—(sniffs)—some Eau de Chypre…
The phial’s of Crystal—(sniffs)—some few dead Posies…
Fourteen Epistles, dabbed with gilded sand
And sealed with crusts of lilac wax beneath…
Three sheets of music…boughpots filled with flowers…
Cards for the Fête Aqueuse…. O, monstrous fine!
A mirror of Bronze (I doubt its but some favour
From a Cotillon)…. Fans, they’re from the Ball….
A print by Mr. Campbell, with Lions’ Heads,
And “STERNE” surmounted by a loop of Roses,
Most witching smart…a frame of Chinese lacker
To hold th’ engraving fast…romantic truly!
Your priest’s a garter’d nobleman, and leaks
Prodigious generosity…in faith,
He’s monstrous kind…aye, look you, in a fortnight

Full fifty-seven gifts he hath despatch’d
In various paquets…aye, and written to boot
One hundred pages Quarto…there’s a man
I call of true nobility…though, in faith,
He’s come no closer than scroll’d Signatures
For thirteen weeks…no doubt he’s held in leash
By Satin thongs to some Duchess…’tis hard,
I do protest, to interrupt a Rout
With kissing girls in Soho….

Catherine: Light the candles,
And leave me, an you love me.

Mother: Aye, ‘tis true
I love you, Kit. Priests do no more than that,
And Laurie Sterne no—

Catherine: Peace! Have done. I’m tired.

Mother: Ah, Catherine, you’ve played the trick too well
For scolding—see to it, child, I pray
That York’s not drown’d in town, nor Yorick either.
Those red-heel’d Ladies cage him in their Hoops
Whilst he indites Epistles to “Dear Kitty”—
He’s but a tearful babe, and may be drawn
By aught of the turns you know—a Stocking’s top
Rimm’d with quick flesh—some string across the shoulder
Slipp’d from the bodice—aye, or peeps of Lace
Would snare that heart which flaps inconstantly
Like lanthorns in great Winds—

Catherine: Leave me, I’m tired.
(Exit Mother. Catherine plays slowly, and meanwhile Sterne enters and listens in the darkness of the door).

Laurence: Oh, Kit!

Catherine: Who’s that?

Laurence: A wretched Gentleman,
Once known in York, now lost in London’s ways.

Catherine: ‘Tis—oh, you fright me—

Laurence: ‘Tis but wretched Yorick,
Sad Tristram—

Catherine: Bring you news of that poor Priest?
‘Tis many a week since last I heard of him,
And being a trifle concern’d in his success,
Pray speak of him—he’s near forgotten here,
And might be dead—

Laurence: She jests—but Kit, I love you!

Catherine: “Dear Kit—I love you—Laurence.” So ‘tis said
In fifty-seven manners, wrote with flourishes
In that poor Priest’s extensive correspondence.

Laurence: Nay, Kit—I love you—not a moment longer
Could aught of Business, Authorship or Rank
Imprison me in cold Pall Mall—I love you!

Catherine: ‘Tis a moment then too late. I love not you!

Laurence: Nay, I protest you tease me. O, Catherine
Have you no heart for pity—

Catherine: What, more pity?
Yea, miserable wretch, I grieve for you—
By Plato, I commiserate your woes—
Poor Tristram, doom’d to everlasting Routs,
Meshed in Ridottos, pent in Fêtes Champêtres—
O, yes, by heaven, I sympathise indeed!

Laurence: You mock me. ‘Tis unworthy, Kit. I’ll vow
No lover has danced in town more wretchedly
Than I at Carlton House—my jaws were wet—
I’ll swear were wet with weeping…night by night
I’d steal by candlelight from Dukes and Barons,
Climb to my Room, and consecrate sad hours
To dreams of thee….

Catherine: O, Laurence, come away….
Back, back to Yorkshire. ‘Tis a year this morning
Since that hot day in August—do you remember?

Laurence: Yes, I remember. ‘Twas a day like this,
I rowed thee down by Ouse…. O, happy Boat!

Catherine: Nay, ‘tis in vain. You know not what I mean.
No lovers pace those hedges now, the Garden
Sleeps once again….

Laurence: Ah, heavens, the Garden, Kit!
Nay, I protest I do remember….

Catherine: You!
Nay, you remember Plato and your tears,
Plato and your digestion….

Laurence: Heavens, yes, Plato,
My sweet Platonic….

Catherine: Sure the philosophy
Affords more true delight to its professor
Than to the obedient novice. Nay, ‘tis vain.
I love you not…no, not if you coached home
And fee’d the Gods to pipe in Yorkshire gardens.

Laurence: Catherine!

Catherine: Nay

Laurence: O Catherine, I’ll repent—
By heaven, I’ll swear to post away instanter.
Run back with me to that one leaden Child
Whose cheeks were blown in smiles above our bed,
Sweet Kit of the Garden—aye, the pool drips now,
The fountain spouts again, the birds dive under,
That August morn returns—return thou with it!

Catherine: Oh, leave—oh, leave—

Laurence: Ah, Catherine, I love you.
Doubt me not, sweet, ‘tis true. I’ve proved that vow
Too often since last August—aye and more,
I’ve naught but misery in London—fame
Hath little delight for lovers—Balls and Routs
Without your voice resolve to mere mechanics.
Believe me, Kit, I stop but long enough
To foster my luck—and with thine aid, sweet Child,
Poor Laurence Sterne, the rustic priest, shall swim,
Thee on his shoulders, down the gutter of Time.

Catherine: I would your—oh, ‘tis vain—leave me, I beg.

Laurence: No, no. I love you!

Catherine: Nay, you love me not.
You love your Wife.

Laurence: That fume of a woman! No!

Catherine: You love no woman, Tristram—nay, no woman.
You love but Eyes whose lakes of darkness mirror
Poor Laurence Sterne—you love but Ears whose mazes
Resound with Yorick’s words, and blow them back
To Yorick himself—you love but Lips that know
Sweet means of kissing Yorick, and since all lips
Accomplish kissing, in faith, you love all lips,
And most your own. Aye, Sir, you’re true enough
In your own manner to all you love on earth—
What’s that? The oil’d machinery of Love,
The cogs that twist in Venus—and after that,
Yes, after that, you feast on “sentiment”—
‘Tis your own word—weep tender nights away
With sad, delicious memories of a kiss
When if you chose you might reap more than kissing—
You love—of course, you love (O sentimental!)
You tickle your heart with sweetmeats of emotion,
Glut on romantic thrills, enjoy rich passions,
Most luscious martyrdoms—plump, tasty sorrows—
By God, I’ve done with playing that touching role,
“The Girl I Left Behind Me”—here am I,
“The Girl Who Wouldn’t be Left Behind”, and trust me,
I’ll smash those chaste affections of your soul,
You pudding of stale sentiment!

Laurence: O, Catherine!
Catherine: No more. I’ve done. Find other fools to dream of,
And I’ll find other lads with lips more hot
Who’ll clip me for a Month, perhaps, or less,
And leave me—and forget….

Laurence: O, Catherine!

Catherine: Weep, little man!

Laurence: O Kit of the Garden! Kit….
(Exit Sterne. Catherine remains staring over the keyboard. After a pause, enter her mother.)

Mother: He’s gone—you’ve vexed him—O, to think he’s gone
In tears and temper—you’re a fool, you Slut….
You’ve botched it all…you should have heeded me.
Eh, lass, a Bodice carelessly open’d up
Can tempt a backward Gallant…what’s the use!
He’s gone, you fool…and here’s that handsome Mirror
Fallen and broken….